


At a Distance

by faerymorstan



Category: Only Lovers Left Alive (2013), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Tarot (Divination Cards)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Asexual Sherlock, Blood Drinking, Death, Drabble Sequence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exsanguination, Forgiveness, Grief, Grief/Mourning, Multi, Past Character Death, Resurrection, Suicidal Thoughts, Tarot, Vampires, love after death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 17:55:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1787890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faerymorstan/pseuds/faerymorstan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary caught a fever.</p><p>Sherlock left a note.</p><p>John, undying, still loves them both.</p><p>Then Sherlock returns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At a Distance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [strangelock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangelock/gifts).



> the very happiest of birthdays to strangelock, twinfriend extraordinaire. xoxo
> 
> please mind the tags.

_Intervening space does not ensure that two objects are separate.  [[x](http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/physics/spooky-action-distance.html)]_

0

Two hours to sunrise and the moon leaks over London, covers the daffodils John lays on Mary and Sherlock’s graves. One hundred and nineteen years since Sherlock left his note by the Falls, one hundred and sixteen since Mary’s fever, and still John mourns them both. Stumbles, alone.

Has a lignum vitae bullet.

Chambered.

John blinks. Frowns: a constellation of asters blooms near Sherlock’s headstone.

“Spring’s not your season,” John says, kneels, gloved palms to the damp ground. “What are you doing here?”

The asters stay silent. John stares through the cab window though the city lights hide the stars.

*

1

It takes, Sherlock finds, one hundred and nineteen bloody years to dismantle a criminal network one stake at a time.

“John,” Sherlock says in Diogenes’ secret heart, buttons to the collar his black shirt, takes the file from Mycroft.

 _Luminous,_ say the photographs; _spouse (Mary Watson née Morstan) deceased 1894_ and _bought a wooden bullet_ , say the documents.

_Mary._

He hadn’t known.

“I’ve arranged Baker Street. You could thank me.”

Sherlock grabs his coat. Turns on his heel.

221B is different (electrified, decluttered, _dusted_ ), the same (newspaper, microscope, violin).  

Sherlock sends John a message. Alchemises himself from what relics remain.

* 

2

_Harry leans against Arthur’s shoulder, her lips stained the red of his collar. “I don’t feel well,” she says from the sitting room sofa._

_John stops short. “Shit.”_

_“Mmm.” Sherlock ties his dressing gown. “I tried to warn him, but he wouldn’t believe me.”_

_“Believed you about the fairies,” John snorts. “_ That _worked out well.”_

_“We can’t giggle,” Mary giggles._

_Wrapped and weighted, hauled in a hansom, Arthur vanishes into the Thames; John, Sherlock, and Mary make their way home by lamplight._

John wakes.

Where Arthur went: only one person could be alive to remember, could send John that dream.

*

3

Sherlock fusses with his equipment, fidgets in his chair, falls finally asleep atop the duvet. He dreams of Harry: _odd_.

After nightfall he wakes hungry. Opens the curtains and thumbs the charms on the black cord around his neck: white caduceus, grey crescent moon, black skull.

He’d been certain Mary would let John turn her, would be here when he returned, but Mary--clever, kind, gentle Mary--is gone.  

His chest hurts.

He cracks open a window. On London’s breeze Mrs Hudson’s daffodils, the trash-stacked alleys, the riverbanks’ and catacombs’ decay.

“Dear old girl,” Sherlock murmurs. “How I’ve missed you.”  

*

4

The flat’s sweet with old-paper smells. John’s in bed flanked by a phalanx of first editions ( _don’t you want the credit_ , Sherlock said once at Baker Street, lips to John’s ear as they slid toward sleep, and John kissed his cheek, said _what do I want with credit when I have you_ , and Sherlock blushed, burrowed close, and--.)

Feigned his death.

John and Mary mourned together.

Then John mourned alone.

Around John’s wrist: a white cord, white caduceus, grey crescent moon, black skull.

He should feed. Isn’t hungry. Should call Molly about supply.

 _Up,_ he orders himself. _Into battle._

*

5

Mrs Hudson climbs the steps, crosses his threshold invited, covers her mouth.

“Oh, Sherlock.” She hugs him, voice thick, eyes teary.

“You _dusted_.” Holds up--tradition, ritual--a bare hand. “May I?”  

“Of course, you silly man.”

Her cheek is peach-soft. _Left England since his absence, found and drank a husband, fed recently, infused supply with cannabinoids, slapped Mycroft for lying to her._

She cups his face in her hands. Frowns. “Poor lamb.”  

He grimaces. “It had to be done.”

“Still. You’re family, Sherlock. I don’t like to see family suffer.”

Sherlock clears his throat. “Have you heard from John?”

*

6

John buttons his plaid shirt, tucks it into his khakis, pulls his belt snug. Slides his gun into his waistband: copper alloy bullets, the lignum vitae in his pocket in case he--.

In case.

 _I can’t believe I’m doing this,_ he thinks, slams the cab door behind him. The car moves; the suburban dark seems to trot alongside. _Fucking stupid of me. Should’ve stayed home, sent him a dream back. Me flipping him off, that’d do it._

But he’d see the bracelet, wouldn’t he.

Unless John took it off. He won’t. Will never.

John sighs.

_Your way. Always your way._

*

7

Mrs Hudson’s hands smooth her apron. “Haven’t heard a word since Mary passed. I try not to take it personally, Sherlock, but _really_. You’d think he’d at least have had the decency to--.”

“I didn’t know.” Sherlock blinks. “About Mary.”

“Oh, _Sherlock_.”

The doorbell chimes.

Sherlock’s stomach drops.

“Is that,” Mrs Hudson starts, but Sherlock is already pounding down the stairs.

John is pale skin etched dark with shadow, blond hair scattered thick with silver.

“Got your message,” John says. Crosses his arms. His bracelet’s still around his wrist. “Well?”

Sherlock swallows. “I thought we might go for a drive.”

*

8

John hugs Mrs Hudson, apologises for his silence, steps into the cab.

“Brixton Road,” Sherlock tells the cabbie.

 _Sentiment._ John looks away.

“Harry sent me a message,” Sherlock says.

John grimaces. “Me too. Couple nights ago.”

“John. I’m sorry.” Sherlock touches his gloved hand to John’s. “I didn’t realise that Mary--I should have been there.”

“There was a reason.” John shakes. Holds back. “That you left. Tell me there was a reason.”

“Moriarty meant to kill me. If I hadn’t neutralised his network, his people would have staked you.”

John nods.

Holds Sherlock, eyes closed, the whole way home.

*

9

Crystal sings on wood as Sherlock sets the goblets on the coffee table, fills them from the silver flask. John’s right hand is cold in Sherlock’s left, bare, letting truths flow between them.

_What Sherlock did._

_How John mourned._

The blood is cool against Sherlock’s tongue. Smooth down his throat. He rests his head on the back of the sofa; his incisors push through, scarlet, deadly, as his eyes and grin go wide. 

He relaxes. He spins. He has no body. His body is lit from within.

He thinks he may have dropped his glass.

John’s hand, warm, squeezes his.

*

10

John and Sherlock are shared breaths, entangled limbs. Nude. Constellations behind their closed eyes.

“Let me destroy it,” Sherlock says, rolls over. The charms drop to the sheets. “The bullet.”

John swallows. “What if I--?”

“You won’t.”

“For one of the others, I meant.”

“Like Harry?”

John laughs. “Bad.”

“Worse than you think.” Sherlock clears his throat. “I already got rid of it. Nicked it from your pocket in the cab and dropped it in hydrochloric acid when we came back.”

John barks a laugh. “Bastard.”

The doorbell rings.

“Sod off,” Sherlock mutters, but John peels himself from the bed.

 *

11

By the time Sherlock gets up, Harry’s already in John’s chair.

“Jesus.” John ties the sash of his robe. “What the fuck, Harry?”

“Get my message?” Harry looks young. Vulnerable. Her hair gleams in the lamplight.

“Bad luck, crossing the threshold uninvited,” Sherlock says, collapsing onto the sofa.

Harry beams at Sherlock. Says to John with a conspiratorial grin, “Death gave you one back, I take it? I would’ve preferred Mary, myself. This one’s a jerk and doesn’t put out.”

John glares. “I should throw you out.”

“Yes,” Sherlock supplies. “You _do_ have it coming.”

Harry, coltish, rolls her eyes.

*

12

“Not for being a twat, though you really are,” John says. “For drinking Arthur.”

“That was ages ago. I was hungry,” Harry pouts.

“You could’ve just fed! Christ, Harry. He wasn’t one of us, but he was our friend.”

Harry shrugs. “I was _hungry_.”

Sherlock stretches one leg, folds the other, tucks the ankle above his knee: an old habit. John remembers it, wants to delight in it, but he still--.

Sherlock lied to him.

He is, he realises with a start, furious.

“Clara threw you out again,” says Sherlock. “Fed up with your drinking?”

“Christ,” Harry moans. “Terrible puns.”

 *

13

Harry and John bicker.

Sherlock closes his eyes. Breathes John’s skin and sweat and soap, feels the heat of John’s lap beneath his legs.

He is again in Meiringen. Lichen and grass on the breeze, rocks wet underfoot. He walks the aster-lined path to the Falls, tells himself he’ll triumph, leaves a note in case he doesn’t (it’s what people do, is at least what Mary would want and John would need.)

Then the struggle, the chasm, and--.

The cord, its charms, survive the fall. Are his to keep now he’s changed and thought a corpse, sent to deal death.

*

14

Sherlock’s face flickers distress. His legs twitch. His breath comes shallow.

_Where are you, love?_

“You yelled at me about turning Clara, John, but you obviously turned Sherlock yours--.”

“Out.”

“What?”

“Talk to Mrs Hudson, if she’ll let you, but go. _Now._ ”

“Arsehole,” Harry mutters. Goes.

John kneels at Sherlock’s side. “Hey,” he murmurs, lays a hand over Sherlock’s heart, touches Sherlock’s face, “Sherlock. Come back.”

Sherlock’s eyes fight open. His gaze--keen, luminous, fathomless--finds John’s. “I was away.” He swallows. “You kept me right. You still do.”

Angry, tender, John nuzzles Sherlock’s cheek. “We keep each other right.”

*

15

Harry pounds back up the stairs, someone close behind.

“Molly,” John says. “How’d you find me?”

“A posh man with a brolly sent me,” Molly stammers. “I put your supply in the landlady’s fridge. I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise you were with your....”

“It’s fine.” John stands. “Molly, Sherlock Holmes; Sherlock, Dr Molly Hooper.”

Molly peers around. “Is that a--?”

“Knife in the mantlepiece? Yes.” Sherlock sees the gleam in Molly’s eyes. “Go on.”

“That’s a Leatherman.” Molly grins. “My dad gave me one.” She traces the blade.

Nicks her finger.

Harry, fangs out, eyes wide, licks her lips.

*

16

John’s in front of Molly, arms crossed, before Harry’s tongue is back in her mouth.

Molly gasps. 

“There’s fresh fucking supply downstairs,” John snaps. “Leave her alone.”

“Oh, Johnny.” Harry smiles. “You know it’s not the same. You drink out of your little goblets, dress it up so you can lie to yourself about what you are. I’m braver than you that way, you know.” She nods toward Sherlock. “So is he.”

Molly says, her voice small, “Okay.”

Harry grins lopsidedly. “‘Okay?’”

Molly nods. Offers Harry her hand.

The door closes behind them. John shakes. Feels struck, a ruin.

*

17

John is shaking, and Sherlock can’t stand it.

 _Fix him_. Sherlock scans the flat: stacked papers, glassware, brass orrery….

“My violin.” Sherlock sits up; John starts. “I was hoping you could tell me its age. I meant to ask you before, but….”

“Your--right.” John picks up the case. Sits at Sherlock’s side. The latches click; John’s hands move across the neck and belly. “She’s lovely. Stradivarius. 1695. Spruce, willow, maple. Old trees from old forests. She remembers, this one.” John sets the violin in the case. Leans against Sherlock’s side.

Isn’t shaking.

Sherlock guides him back to the bedroom.

*

18

John traces the freckled asterisms on Sherlock’s nape. Presses his lips to them. “I should’ve stopped her.”

(Dead and gone, these stars, and returned; Mary’s won’t, haunt him still, beloved ghosts.)

“Stopped who?”

“Harry. Molly. Does it matter?”

Sherlock’s hand finds John’s. Touches the charms on John’s bracelet. “You didn’t stop me.”

(Sherlock couldn’t have stopped him: in John a madness that thrilled to swallow Sherlock’s blood.)

John blinks. Swallows. “You didn’t want me to.”

“I wanted to know. So did Molly.”

( _Show me where you’re wildest,_ they’d said, silent, and Sherlock showed John his London.

John showed Sherlock himself.)

*

19

Voices in Mrs Hudson’s flat: Harry and Hudders telling Molly, who Harry seems not to have drunk (a relief--disposing of yet another body would have been tedious), how she will live now. John’s arm is warm around Sherlock’s waist, his breath gentle on the back of Sherlock’s neck; Sherlock is in his own bed: safe, held, not dead.

Though no one can see his face-- _because_ no one can see his face, perhaps--Sherlock smiles. Feels creases form at the corners of his eyes.

There will be chases. Crimes. Parts of London new to him.

John at his side.

Sherlock beams.

*

20

The risen dead asleep in his arms, John talks to Mary. He hasn’t seen her since she passed. Still feels that she’s near, speaks to her, pictures the _oh my love_ lines of her face, the _I’m listening_ tilt of her head. 

_I’m angry with him for leaving._

_I’m angry with you for leaving us._

_I’m angry with myself for letting you both go._

She wouldn’t let them turn her. Said she had to know death, would pay the price to solve its mysteries.

 _Oh my love,_ she says.

_John._

_Forgive him._

_Forgive me._

_Forgive yourself._

John weeps. Shakes. 

Forgives.

*

21

Midnight. A dockworker cold on a gurney. Sherlock hunched over a microscope at Bart’s, John close by his side.

“Found in the Thames,” Molly says, grazes her still-healing scars with her fingertips, “but the fluid in his lungs has diatoms wrong for where he was found.”

John frowns. “He was moved?”

“Obviously. But why?” Sherlock’s hand goes to his necklace. His mind traces rivers, cross-references frustulae, follows currents to the city under the city.

“You know, don’t you?”

_I will._

“Come along, John.” Sherlock turns up his collar, sends John a sidelong smile. John winks back. “The game is on.”


End file.
